


Your Whole Body is a Target

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Domestic Violence, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:41:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: The first time was an accident. Just the same as any other accident with Frank- on stage, in the heat of the moment. Mikey had been standing by Bob's kit, eyes closed, feeling the music rock through his body. Then, Pansy was flying at him, and the world went black. For three weeks, Mikey wore stitches through his temple where the guitar had broken the skin open.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Mikey Way
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	Your Whole Body is a Target

**Author's Note:**

> Clearing out the backlog.

The first time was an accident. Just the same as any other accident with Frank- on stage, in the heat of the moment. Mikey had been standing by Bob's kit, eyes closed, feeling the music rock through his body. Then, Pansy was flying at him, and the world went black. When he woke, Gerard floated into view, worry lines written across his face. He sighed, relieved, and patted Mikey's head. For three weeks, Mikey wore stitches through his temple where the guitar had broken the skin open.

The second time was an accident, too. They had been lying in bed, sweaty with the aftermaths of sex. Frank made a move to get up. His legs were tangled in the sheets and, before Mikey could stop him, he fell forward, forehead crashing into Mikey's nose. They both heard the crack, felt the blood pour out almost immediately. Both screamed, for very different reasons, and Ray and Bob suddenly appeared. They yelled for Otto to find the nearest hospital. Ray had fixed Mikey up, for the most part, before the bus pulled into the emergency room parking lot. Mikey's face had been swollen for a month.

The third time could have been an accident. They had been arguing. Mikey doesn't remember why, now, just remembers laying on the floor in the apartment they shared, listening to the news. He had almost been asleep when the front door opened. Frank gave no greeting. Mikey didn't look up. There was the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor, then, crushing pain in his hand. He yelled, trying to yank his hand away. Frank lingered too long, dragged his foot as he pulled away. Mikey couldn't move the ring or pinky finger of his right hand. Frank apologized in rapid fire as he raced them to the hospital. For two months, Mikey played his bass with his fingers taped together.

The fourth time was on purpose. Mikey, his fingers fresh from their binds, had gone drinking with Ray. He staggered through the door of the apartment, head aching. Frank was sitting on the couch, cross-legged and almost asleep. Mikey had smiled, kicked off his shoes. Before he could cross the room, Frank was up. He snarled words- drunk himself- and grabbed Mikey by the shirt. Are you cheating? Are you fucking cheating? Then, a fist in his face, cracking against his jaw. He fought back, yelling a drunken battle cry, arms and legs just too slow to be useful. Frank, small as he was, managed to topple him over. His head bounced off the floor, sparking flares behind his eyes. Frank kneeled on Mikey's wrists, grating the bones together, and threw his fists into him in a whiplash blur. Mikey borrowed wrist braces from Ray. His split lips hurt when he lied to Gerard.

The fifth, sixth, seventh blurred together. It was a haze of anger in Frank's make-up smeared eyes, of broken ankle, sprained wrist, dislocated shoulder. Of emergency rooms and Gerard's worried face. Of Frank apologizing. Frank saying I love you, I'm sorry. I love you more than anyone else can. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Mikey did fight back. Threw blows that left bruises on Frank's pretty face for days. And, maybe, he fought a little less each time. Maybe, by the ninth, tenth, eleventh time, he just stopped caring and took it. He stopped taking Gerard's phone calls.

On tour, it was harder to hide the bruises. Gerard followed him like a plague. Frank, the loving boyfriend, laughed and held Mikey's hand and kissed him and laid with him on the bus floor, just as they always had. Mikey could believe Frank again at night when he whispered his I love you's. He could remember when they were okay. If he stopped eating, no one really needed to know. If Frank pulled his hair out, sometimes, when they were behind closed doors, no one needed to know that, either. He was a man. He was no simpering woman. If there was a problem, he would fix it. That was what men did.

The first time Mikey said no, Frank burned him with the cherry red end of a cigarette. The second time, he punched him in the gut hard enough to send him into an asthma attack. The third, he went ahead anyway. Mikey had thought to fight. He thought to struggle as Frank, who was so much smaller than him, dragged him by the hair into their bedroom. As Frank ripped through his clothes and threw him onto the bed. When Frank crawled over him, Mikey closed his eyes. He couldn't find the strength to struggle. Tense on the sheets, he bit back his screams as Frank pushed into him dry. Mikey refused to cry. He dug his nails- which had become yellowed and brittle- into his palms, bit the insides of his cheeks until they exploded open like fountains. When it was over, Frank fell onto him, heavy and hot. I love you. I love you when no one else will.

Mikey stopped looking in the mirror. His hair hung limp around his face, his cheeks had sunken in. The bags around his eyes blended with the bruises. The few times he had looked while he was undressing, he could see his ribs through his increasingly yellow sick skin. See the defined lines of his hipbones razoring through like daggers. His throat hurt more often than not. He sort of stopped speaking. Frank spoke enough for the both of them, anyway. If he avoided going outside, it was only because the sun burned him like fire. If he missed Christmas with his family, it was only because Frank told him he'd leave if he went.

Frank was at the video store when Gerard walked in, unannounced. Mikey, curled up on the couch, said nothing. There were ghosts of tears in Gerard's eyes as he knelt on the floor in front of him. Mikey didn't turn away when his brother touched his sweat damp forehead, when cautious fingers tucked his dirty, stringy hair behind his ear. The scar on his temple had grown pink again, raised against his thin flesh.

"Why?" Gerard's voice was choked. He looked so very old. So very tired.

"He loves me." Mikey pulled his quilt tight around him to block the chill. He turned his eyes again to the movie playing on the television, exhausted from nothing.

"So do I. And Ray and Bob." Gerard clasped Mikey's hand, so much like a dried leaf, in his. "Please, Mikey. Come with me. Get away from this."

"I think you should go now," Mikey said flatly. He took his hand from his brother's and tucked it under the quilt. If he felt Gerard's hot tears land on his forehead as his head was kissed, he made no show of care. If the door closing sounded dreadfully fatalistic, he made no move to run. And if Frank would one day kill him, he had already given in to it.


End file.
